


My Beautiful Launderette

by StacPolly



Series: Supermarket Sweep [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:59:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4166865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StacPolly/pseuds/StacPolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry has some dirty laundry to get through and he absolutely doesn't need to be accompanied by a recently reappeared Draco Malfoy, who really shouldn't be allowed out without a keeper.</p><p>Sequel to Supermarket Sweep and Formica Tables.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

“Oh, it’s you.” Harry pauses, his key still in the lock, and shifts the basket of dirty washing to his left thigh.

Malfoy watches him uncertainly in the gloomy hallway. “I thought - well, you said -.”

Harry sighs. “I did, didn’t I, _three whole months ago_ , though I don’t know how you found me. Come along then.” He pockets his key and heads for the street entrance. Malfoy follows him silently, and pointedly doesn’t offer to help with the basket. Although Harry can’t really blame him - with Kreacher away his laundry situation has got rather out of hand.

“Andromeda,” Malfoy offers at last, and Harry spares him a glance.

“Huh?”

“Andromeda told me where you lived.”

He’ll be having words with Mrs Tonks. He sighs and manoeuvres Malfoy across a zebra crossing.

Malfoy stops halfway over and stands there in the middle of the road, observing the cars on either side. “You just jumped out and those cars stopped. It was like magic.”

“They’ve got brakes, it stops them.” Harry shifts his basket to one arm and yanks him over to the other side. “It’s the law.”

They continue in awkward silence, although Malfoy casts frequent curious glances at the basket. It’s a lovely warm day and Harry would rather be out in the park, or a pub garden, but he really is down to his last pair of boxers. In fact -

Horns sound all around.

“What the -!” Harry turns round in time to see Malfoy as he leap into the road, cars and lorries on both sides screeching to a stop.

“They stopped. I made them stop!” He turns there like an idiot, grinning, until the nearest van gives an angry beep. With a gesture unmistakable in both Wizarding and Muggle circles the fool starts to walk over to the van and Harry can just see how this is going to end.

“ _Jesus_. Come on.” He grabs him by the hand. “You’re not supposed to jump out like that - you’ve got to give some warning, and use a proper crossing.”

The van driver sticks a greasy head out of the window. “What the fuck’s 'e playing at?”

“Sorry!” Harry holds up a placating hand. “He’s not used to cars.” He turns to Malfoy, speaking loudly and clearly. “Come along now Drakey, it’s time to get you home.”

Malfoy looks like he’s going to protest but Harry barely waits for the irate driver’s “Fucking eejit,” before pulling him to the other side.

“ _Drakey?_ ” Malfoy stands, hands on hips, as the traffic begins to move once more.

“You were about to get your head kicked in. It worked. Now let’s get to the fucking launderette.”

He sets out at a fair pace and after a brief moment of mutiny, Malfoy follows him. They cross the park in silence. Then -

“What’s a launderette?”

He thinks for a bit, how best to put this into Pureblood speak. He settles on - “It’s a place with machines a bit like a house-elf, which wash and dry your clothes for you.”

“Hence that thing,” says Malfoy, with a knowing look at the basket, and then stops to inspect a poop and scoop bin on the side of the path.

“Yes, hence the basket. And, yeah, you really don’t want to open-." He cringes. “Never mind.”

“Why don’t they just banish the stuff? Far more hygienic." With a look of disgust Malfoy pulls out his wand and performs an overzealous air freshening charm. They continue, both stinking of lilies, but now Harry’s eyeing up the rest of the path and wondering what else Malfoy can find. He’s fairly certain that were they to come upon a bee hive, in his current mood Malfoy would charge right in there with a stick and give it a good poke. He hopes to god there’s no Battersea park apiculture society.

“Don’t you have a house elf?”

“He’s on holiday,” says Harry, and braces for impact.

There’s a long moment where Malfoy apparently loses the power of speech. He makes up for it though.

“Your house elf is on _holiday_?” The students picnicing on the grass over by the ducks look up with interest.

“Rehearsing for a play,” Harry improvises wildly. Malfoy, glancing round, appears to realise they’re not alone, for he repeats it, but quietly this time.

“On holiday, Potter? House Elves don’t go on holiday. They live to serve.”

Harry shrugs as well as he can with his arms full of bloody enormous basket. “Well _my_ House Elf does, _Malfoy_.”

Malfoy continues to give him disbelieving sideways glances the rest of the way, and Harry is grateful when they arrive in front of the tattered peeling door of the launderette, and not just because there’s a glint in Malfoy’s eye that suggests he’s just spotted the swans - and yeah, he could do without _that_.

Fortunately there’s a machine free and Malfoy watches in blessed silence as he loads his clothes and the pot of powder he’s bought for a quid from the bored woman behind the desk. It’s a large drum, which is good because he doubts this is going to end well, not with Malfoy walking round and inspecting every washing machine in the place before he crouches on the floor in front of Harry’s. In his new enthusiasm for the Muggle world Malfoy seems to have thrown all his Slytherin caution to the wind and embraced his inner toddler.

“What happens next?”

Harry presses the button. “We wait. For about an hour and a half.”

Malfoy looks up, momentarily distracted. “I don’t like waiting.”

“Neither do I.” Especially not for people who make all sorts of promises to meet up soon and then make absolutely no effort at contact for three whole months.

“Can’t we go out and come back?”

“Nothing’s keeping _you_ here,” Harry points out, but he regrets it when Malfoy’s face falls. “Look, we have to stay because otherwise people sometimes nick your clothes.”

Malfoy peers back into the drum, watching avidly as Harry’s lurid green socks rotate. “I sincerely doubt anyone would want to steal _your_ clothes, Potter.”

Harry sighs. “Stop watching the drum, Draco. You’re not a bloody cat. Now, tell me what you've been up to since I saw you last." He's not upset, he really isn't.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Malfoy seems to become aware that they are attracting interest from the assorted clientèle, few of whom look particularly salubrious, and Harry begins to wish he’d just taken the idiot straight into his flat the moment he’d clapped eyes on him - him and his pink wellies. He suspects the Muggle disguise is far more conspicuous than Malfoy intended. Now catching the eye of a particularly beefed up guy with a mohawk Malfoy stares wide-eyed before something in that man’s face apparently convinces him that it would be best for everyone if he just sat down and kept quiet. And that lasts about a minute.

“So where’s he gone?”

“Who?” Harry turns from his casual contemplation of the My Beautiful Laundrette poster on the wall above the driers.

Malfoy huffs and crosses his arms. “Your house elf. Do keep up.”

“Kreacher? He’s -” Harry pauses. “Well, he’s gone to a House Elf retreat. He wouldn’t go the seaside.”

Malfoy raises a supercilious eyebrow. “And what will he do at this _retreat_?”

Bloody Malfoy and his bloody questions. “Cordon bleu cookery - yes, I _know_. But he wouldn’t go on a proper holiday, it had to be something useful. So I signed him up.”  
Malfoy settles back on the bench with a sigh of satisfaction. “I told you, they live to serve.”

 

He takes his time looking around, taking in the beige machines, the scuffed bench and the bleary eyed students tapping away on their mobiles. “You really do take me to the most glamorous places.”

Harry sighs. “It’s not a date, Malfoy. You followed me here.”

Malfoy doesn’t respond and Harry eventually turns to look at him and follow his sight line. “What’s -?”

Malfoy is just sitting there gazing at that same poster, eyes wide. Knowing Harry’s luck Malfoy probably thinks it’s some kind of gay laundrette now, and goodness knows what he expects to happen after the whole supermarket _thing_.

“This is a _gay_ laundrette?” Malfoy looks round as if seeing the clientèle for the first time.

“It’s just a poster for a film about two gay men in a laundrette, it’s an old film.”

When Malfoy doesn’t respond he knows it is time to address the elephant in the room.

“So - have you thought any more about the whole gay thing then?”

Malfoy shuffles on the bench and throws a quick look around before he answers.

“You’re all right here -,” Harry reassures him. And really, it’s time to stop being an idiot about it. “- Draco. The poster sort of gives it away.”

“Oh, okay.” He nods.

They sit in silence whilst the machine fills once more with water and detergent.

“I went back to Brighton.” Draco picks at a slightly fraying cuff on his jumper. It’s sort of unexpected, and a little bit charming. But -

“Hmm?” Harry tries to keep his voice neutral. “And?”

“Someone - someone I,” he flushes, leaving Harry to assume the worst. “Yes, well, they suggested I go back for some parade. So I did. It was most enlightening. A little disturbing perhaps, but - overall - enlightening. And then I met this man and we -”

Harry’s had enough. He holds up a hand.

“All right, I _really_ don’t need to hear how you’ve shagged your way through Brighton. You should be more careful, there’s stuff you don’t know, that I didn’t tell you.”

God, he was such an idiot, telling Draco he needs to meet other men, and then not telling him _anything_ of use. But, somehow he didn’t think he actually would. He’s not sure what he was thinking, just a sort of vague assumption that they’d become friends after that chippie on the sea-front - and then, maybe. Instead - nothing. Nothing for three whole months.

Draco looks horrified. “I’m not going to -” his voice drops to a whisper, “ _Consort_ , with some random Muggle I don’t even know.”

“Oh.” Harry glances at him. “I just assumed - when you went back - .”

“I think some people tried. Some people were quite insistent, as a matter of fact. It’s different in the Muggle world, isn’t it? It sort of looks the same, but it’s - not."

Harry groans and drops his face in his hands. “Well, you’re not bad looking. Passable, at any rate."

Draco gives a pleased little snort. “Well at least that’s one thing that doesn’t change.”

“Kind of limiting though, don’t you think?”

“What?”

Harry shrugs and wanders over to inspect his washing. “Not that many of our type about. Especially not in your circles.”

“Well, I - they were amusing to watch. But they’re not like us -”

Harry sighs. He really can’t get a handle on Draco these days. Half the time he’s the spoilt brat he remembers from school, and Harry is half-tempted to end this before it goes any further - but every now and then something breaks through and he wonders if he is seeing the real Draco, the man underneath all the pretence and posturing.

“Muggles aren’t just playthings here for your amusement, Draco. They’re real people with real feelings - just like us.”

He’s on the receiving end of a long, narrow gaze.

“You’re pissed off.”

Harry grunts. Sulking’s fine, but he doesn’t like being called on it, and hardly any one ever does.

“Do you?”

Harry half turns. “Do I what?”

“Do you -” his voice lowers, “ _liaise_ with Muggles?”

“Not for a while,” Harry says, tightly. “Not that I have anything against them, it’s just -” He sighs. “The Muggles just don’t understand what my life is all about, and I can’t tell them, so we never get close enough to be at the point where I could actually apply for permission to tell them. Classic Catch 22," he adds.

Draco gives a pleased little nod. “Joseph Heller. Andromeda’s cottage.”

Harry doesn’t like to tell him that he’s never actually read the thing.

 

“And what about _our_ sort,” Draco asks, before flushing and staring down at his wellies. Harry smothers a smile.

“I had a think about the maths of it once. They reckon about ten percent of Muggles are thought to be gay, max, and even if the percentage is similar in the Wizarding world, our overall population is much much smaller.”

“Did Granger tell you how many gay Wizards there are?” Draco asks, with an incredulous glance. “I doubt anyone answers her surveys truthfully. Not Slytherins, anyway.”

Harry shrugs. “You’re probably right. I don’t think anyone knows, but given the situation in the Wizarding world, then probably a lot less than ten percent are actually willing to do anything about it. Narrow that down to Britain, reduce it to men aged between, I dunno, twenty and forty, and you’ve got about thirty gay men.”

Draco nods. He always was good with numbers, and second only to Hermione at stuff like Arithmancy. “Take off those who are already happily - if secretly - paired up -”

“And,” Harry says, his fist clenching, “The idiots who want to date me for fame, fortune or just out of idle curiosity -.”

“There’s always the other Europeans,” Draco offers tentatively. “You know, the Wizards who went to Beaubaxtons, and Durmstrang.” He gives Harry a small smile. “I always wondered about Krum, you know -”

“No.” Harry affects great interest in the Gardener’s World magazine on the bench next to him.

“No?”

“No.”

He can’t resist sneaking a glance. Draco raises his eyebrow. “So you -?”

Oh hell. “Y-e-s,” he grinds out. “ _Very_ embarrassing. He was rather nice about it though.”

Draco snorts. “So the great Harry Potter got turned down by Viktor Krum. Ah well, I always knew he had no taste, ever since the Yule Ball.” Silence. “That was a joke, by the way.”

Harry relents. “I suppose if we include the influx from Russia, that ups our chances a little.”

“Ours?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. “Well, you said no Muggles. Unless you plan on chatting up Firenze, it doesn’t leave you much choice except the ten remaining acceptably-aged gay men in Wizarding Britain.”

Draco smirks at him, and Harry catches himself before he can lean forward and wipe that smirk off his face, with a hereto untried method. “Firenze was pretty fit, wasn’t he?”

Sitting firmly on his hands, Harry stretches his legs across the aisle. “I _loved_ Divination.”

“Big improvement on Trelawney. Top notch teaching skills.”

“The half horse thing, though,” he says. “Could be an issue. I mean, I’m not even sure what the rules are -” he trails off. That’s one he won’t be asking Hermione.

“I’m fairly sure it’s illegal,” Draco wanders over to inspect the machine, which has slowed to a halt. “Not that that usually stops a Malfoy.”

“So, no Muggles then. And Beings also off the menu,” Harry tries, attempting to bring him back on topic. “What about Wizards?”

As the machine lets out an ear-splitting ‘bleep’, Draco jumps, and then turns to give the washer a stern look.

“What did it say?”

Harry pushes himself to his feet. “It’s saying ‘now open me’.”

Draco watches incredulously as he pulls the sodden washing, reeking of cheap soap, into the laundry basket. “It’s still wet. Are you telling me we’ve been sitting here for forty minutes and it hasn’t even dried your clothes?”

Maybe he’s got a point. He glances at the acrylic price chart mounted behind the desk and the woman on the till meets his eye. In fact, he realises, they’ve drawn the eye of about everyone in the place.

“Fiver for a service dry,” she offers, gesturing over her shoulder. “Come back in an hour and I’ll have it all nice and ready for you. Fancy dress party, is it?”

“Something like that.” He lugs the basket over. It’s even heavier now.

She winks as he hands her a tenner. “There’s a nice pub round the corner, why don’t you take your blonde date for a pint. He’s a bit too upmarket for this place.”

“It’s not a date,” Harry protests, as he pockets the change.

She raises an eyebrow. “I should hope not. That one’s high maintenance if you ask me.”

“You’re probably right.” He _knows_ she’s right, but somehow they end up having lunch at a nearby gastropub anyway.

\---------------

“Are we going back the same way?”

Harry starts to nod, before cocking a suspicious eyebrow. “You want to go back through the Muggle park?”

Draco holds the launderette door open, suspicious in itself. “It was a very nice park, except for those shit-boxes."

Folded, dried washing safely stacked in the basket, Harry edges out of the door. “Well where else do you expect them to put the dog mess?”

Draco lets the door slam shut behind them. And, to his credit, he only manages to catch the back of Harry’s Birkenstock. “Muggles,” he opines, looking at the passing pedestrians as one might look at a vial full of dragon pox virus, “Are very odd creatures.”

“They’re just like you and me, really." He catches sight of Draco’s pink wellington boots. “Well, me, anyway. Come along.”

“To the park?” Draco asks, hopefully.

Harry looks at him thoughtfully. “Was there anything you particularly wanted to see?”

“Mmmm.” Draco jumps out of the way of an old man on a mobility scooter. “Swan. I haven’t had swan for years.”

“Well you can’t have the swans. They belong to the Queen.”

Draco isn’t listening. “Do we catch them the Muggle way, or with our wands?”

Harry sighs, and shifts the basket to his other arm. “Not a game park, Draco, it’s for pleasure.”

“Swan with Huckleberry sauce is _always_ a pleasure. How _do_ the Muggle’s catch them, anyway? I saw a man catch a cow with a lassoo once, in one of Teddy’s books. It looked tricky but it’s probably just a case of practice.” He mimes lassooing, and a passing woman ducks and squeals.

Harry stops, lodges the laundry basket on a handy bench, and rubs his hands through his hair. “You can’t catch the swans. Not by magic, or, or, fucking _lassoos_. Battersea Park is not the wild west, Draco. Those swans belong to the Queen of England and if you take one without her permission, _especially_ to cover in Huckleberry sauce, you’ll be in serious trouble with the Muggle Aurors.”

“Oh,” says Draco, apparently undaunted. “Oh well, I’ll have to send an owl to Great Aunt Gotha, I’m sure she can put in a good word for me.”

“Your Great Aunt - _oh my god_. That explains a lot. On both sides, actually.” Harry tilts back his head and watches the passing cloud with envy.

 

They go back through the park, but Harry is careful to maintain their distance from the Kid’s Zoo over by the river.

“Look, if we’re going to be -- friends --, then you are going to have to learn a bit about my culture,” he begins. “After we dump the laundry we’ll go to a cinema, and -”. He’s not sure what’s on at the moment, but it might be wise to check it out first. “Scratch that, we’ll go back to mine and we can watch some films,” - although, he thinks, perhaps not _The Matrix_ , or _Brokeback_ , "And I can explain some stuff and then -”

“ _Friends?_ ” says Draco, his voice barely audible over the traffic. He lifts his chin. “I’d, I’d like that, Potter.” He catches Harry’s eye. “ _Harry_. Look, I’m not such an idiot as I make out, you know.”

Harry sighs. “Yeah, I know. And I don’t know what I’m going to do with you - get more grey hairs, probably.”

Draco picks up the basket. “The silver fox look, some people go for that, I hear. Not Krum, of course, but -”

“You don’t have to do that, you know. It’s my laundry.”

Draco shrugs. “It’s all right, you were starting to walk like a hunchback.”

“Thanks.” Harry catches hold of the other handle, and Draco grants him a small smile.

“Could we watch that Laundry film you were talking about? The one with the poster in the,” he glances round, “The gay launderette?”

Harry falls into step beside him, “Yeah. We can watch that. Not tonight, mind you. But one day.”

A couple of passing girls quirk an eyebrow at the pink boots, and really Harry’s grateful that that’s all they do.

“Those your Aunt Andromeda’s wellies?”

Draco pauses to hold one boot out in front of him, turning it this way and that and inspecting it with a pleased smirk. “Yes, I told her I needed to pass _incognito_ amongst the Muggle hordes.” He looks up and Harry hurriedly rearranges his face. Obviously not fast enough, because Draco looks slowly around as the Muggle hordes diverge and flow around them on the pavement.

He looks back at Harry.

“Your Aunt has a great sense of humour,” Harry offers, and bites his lip.

“I don’t see any other men in pink rubber boots,” Draco observes. “I was _trying_ to blend in.”

Harry tugs his arm and pulls him back into the flow, looking straight ahead as he says, “The boots are fine, Draco. I’m just not sure they go with the kilt and the feather boa.”


	3. Draco Malfoy and the Die-Soon

One hand against the wall for support, Harry opens the door.

Oh god, is it Tuesday already?

“So, you didn’t turn up to the car place. And I waited a bit, but the garage man asked me if I wanted a job, so thought I’d better check up on you.”

Car shop - Oh yes, Harry was going to take him for a ride in a Muggle car, then a DVD marathon - Star Wars Episodes V and VI, which may, or may not be a good idea.

“Draco -” he begins helplessly.

Draco pushes through the doorway and dumps his bag on the chair. He turns to look at Harry. Harry slumps against the wall.

“Merlin, you look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.” Harry gestures to his face. “Look Draco, you shouldn’t be here. I’m ill.”

“I can see that. Your face looks worse than Marietta Whatshername’s. Haven’t you learnt not to annoy Granger yet?” He comes closer, peers at the pustules which - as far as Harry knows from his last survey - are now clustered around his cheeks.

“It’s not a hex. It’s a Muggle disease - chickenpox.”

Draco looks, if possible, even more disgusted. “Chicken-spots? How do you even catch a Muggle disease?”

Teddy’s birthday he _thinks_. But that’s not the point. The point is that it’s very infectious.

“Consorting with Muggles is bad enough Potter, but getting up close and personal with their poultry really is a step too far.”

Harry looks at him. He’s still in the hallway, which is kind of a surprise, really. “You _are_ joking aren’t you? Whooa!” His head feels all fuzzy.

Draco is at his elbow before he can stop him. “You’d better get back to bed.”

“Don’t touch me!”

Draco jerks back, his eyes wide and frightened. “What, sorry? Did I hurt you?”

Harry leans back to the wall, a safe distance away. “No. I’m - fine. Just infectious. Probably.”

“It’s a Muggle disease, you said?”

“Yeah. You’d better leave before _you_ catch it. Knowing my bloody relatives they probably didn’t bother to vaccinate me.” He’s starting to feel wobbly again and as the shivers wrack him from head to toe he suspects his fever is on the rise again. He just needs to get rid of Draco before he makes a complete idiot of himself and starts sobbing or, worse - vomiting. “Only half-bloods can get it, I think."

Draco’s face relaxes and he steps forward. “Don’t worry. _Toujours Pur_ and all that. There’s not a drop of Muggle in my blood. Or chicken,” he adds darkly.

He pushes Harry down the hallway in front of him.

“And when will the chickens start erupting? Or do you turn into a chicken? Just give me a vague idea so I’m not caught unawares.”

“Chicken?” asks Harry, brain starting to swim. This conversation seems to be taking an odd turn. Perhaps it’s the fever.

“Do you start eating chicken food at that point, or do I keep on with the soup and fluids?”

“You’re staying?” Harry asks, faintly, as Draco herds him into the bedroom, a firm hand to his back.

“Of course I’m staying, you eejit.”

“Thanks.” The thought of having someone to look after him is strangely comforting.

“You saw me turn into a ferret, you at least owe me this.”

Ah. Harry sinks down onto his bed, and doesn’t protest when Draco lifts his legs up, swings them round, and pulls up the covers.

“No chicken - soup.”

Draco tilts his head to one side. “Ah yes, that would be somewhat cannibalistic. So, which is it?”

Harry rubs his hands through sweaty hair and tries to marshal his thoughts. “Not erupting chicken pots,” he says firmly.

“That’s a shame, I was sort of imaging little Swiss cuckoo clocks, chiming on the hour.”

Harry shakes his head. “And I’m not going to turn into a chicken either. It’s a Muggle disease.”

“That,” says Draco, his mouth a moue of regret, “Is _very_ disappointing.”


	4. Chapter 4

When he wakes the next day - at least, he thinks it’s the next day - Draco is still there, sitting, legs crossed, in the armchair in his bedroom and reading _The Wicker Man_.

Oh dear.

At his sigh, Draco looks up.

“How are you feeling? Any better?”

Harry suppresses a groan. The shivering has already started again and his mouth is itchy and dry, but his head feels clearer, at least for now.

“More chicken soup? I could ask Kreacher to bring some. He seems to like me.”

He starts to shake his head, but abandons the attempt. “No,” he manages to croak. Not after the dream he had last night - revenge seeking cuckoo-chickens springing after him may be a - a- fiction of his fevered brain, but they felt real enough.

Draco pads over and with a quick Aguamenti tops up his glass. He offers it wordlessly, and Harry takes a grateful gulp.

“I took your temperature in the night. You were way over 40 and you were saying some pretty weird stuff about supermarket trolleys being pulled by Centaurs. I’m calling Granger.”

Harry forces himself upright.

“You can’t!”

“Why?” Draco asks, siphoning up the spilled water. “She’ll know what to do, and quite frankly, Potter, I was worried last night.”

“The baby,” he croaks hoping Draco understands. “Hermione’s -- Muggleborn. Dangerous for the baby.”

Draco stops mid-twirl. “The baby could catch it?” he asks softly, and Harry nods miserably. “Well, how about I just firecall? It can’t go over the floo can it?”

It can’t, as far as he knows, but that’s -. “Don’t worry ‘Mione. Blood pressure." She’s been on bed rest the last few weeks and he knows Ron is trying to keep her calm. “Nightmare.”

“And there’s not a chance in hell of Weasley being able to keep it off his face, I suppose.” It’s not even a question.

“Andromeda?” Harry tries.

Draco shakes his head. “Teddy’s in St Mungo’s - with, well I _thought_ my mother said Dragonpox, but I suppose it was probably Chicken Spots, as I can’t think where else you got this.”

That’s news to him. “Ted okay?"

Andromeda will be going frantic with worry and he’s not going to add to that, however much he might wish for someone to come over and mother him.

Draco comes and sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under Harry’s spine. “He’s okay -now. They just have to keep him in, in case it interacts with the Lycanthropy. But you definitely need something, Harry -”

Their eyes meet in the dim firelight.

“Molly!”

“Just floo,” Harry adds, coughing. “She’s got Rose.”

 

Molly appears in a whoosh of flame, drying a plate on her apron. “Hello, Harr-”

Harry wriggles up in bed again.

“Draco Malfoy.” The rubbing stops as Molly stares through the floo.

Draco is standing, to attention, in front of the fireplace.

“Mrs Weasley.” He nods politely.

“What are you doing in Harry’s house? In Harry’s _bedroom_?”

Draco holds up his hands. “I just came around to see Harry, and I found him - like this -” He stands back to let her see the bed, and Harry manages a pathetic little wave.

“He says it’s chicken spots.”

“Oh dear,” says Molly, drawing back from the flame. “You don’t look at all well, Harry.” She holds up her hands, the plate too. “I’d come over but I’ve got Rosie here and Hermione could go into labour any moment. I can’t risk it. I’m so sorry -”

“He doesn’t want you to,” says Draco, firmly. “And you mustn’t let -” he pauses and a small shudder runs through his body. “You mustn’t let Hermione, or Ron know about it. It would upset her terribly. Harry’s very concerned about her, and the baby.”

Molly nods, her face creased. “Can I do anything? Maybe I could send over some chicken broth, if I packed it well then I’m sure Erroll would manage.”

“No,” they say, in unison once more.

“I think we’re all right for soup,” adds Draco, repressing a snort. He steps closer to the floo. “What I really need, Mrs Weasley, is your advice.”

She softens visibly at the respect in his voice, and Draco turns to flash Harry a smirk.

“I hate to think of you ill and alone, Harry dear. Draco - make sure he stays calm, no worries, no stress. Anything like that can cause terrible complications, I remember my Great Aunt Ermintrude, her mother was a Muggleborn, and she went down with it when she was ninety, poor thing. Read about a Death Eater raid in the Prophet and dropped down-”

“He’s not alone,” interjects Draco, hastily. “Now, what kind of potions can he have? I can brew them up here if he’s got even a half decent potions kit, and Kreacher can fetch anything else I need.”

“I don’t think he _can_ have potions, although an oat bath would help,” says Molly, peering round at Harry. “It depends on exactly what proportions of Muggle blood he has, and whether he had a - a- in-the-eyes-ation.”

“In-the-eyes-ation?” Draco repeats, turning to look blankly at Harry.

Harry stares back. He’s shivering uncontrollably now.

Draco frowns.

“Oh! _Immunisation_. I’ve read about those. Well, have you, Harry?”

Harry shrugs. “Dunno. Petunia might."

“Your Muggle aunt?"

He nods weakly, his head falling back onto the pillows. The last thing he hears is “Kreacher!”

 

\------------------------

 

“Get up!"

He opens sticky eyes. “What’s going on?”

“You’ve got to have an oat bath. Mrs Weasley said.”

“ _Now?_ ”

“It’ll make you feel better.”

Harry is not convinced, but Draco is insistent, nagging at him until he rolls to the edge of the bed and gets unsteadily to his feet.

Then he slips an arm around his shoulders and guides him to the bathroom, which, to be fair, is rather better than the _Mobilicorpus_ he’d been expecting.

“Oat bath?”

His legs feel strangely weak, and he leans against Draco for a moment.

“Yes, it’s supposed to be soothing. Works in potions too, but I’ve never heard of this approach before. Still, Muggle disease, Muggle remedy.”

“That’s - thanks, Draco. Can’t believe you’ve made me a-” The door swings open. “-A vat of porridge.”

A bath-sized vat of porridge. Scotsmen probably pay good money for this kind of thing.

“Merlin knows how the Muggles get it out again after, without _Scourgify_.” Draco tucks his wand behind his ear.

Harry slumps against the door.

Ah yes. Thank god for _Scourgify_ then. They’ll be needing that. Or rather, he’ll be needing it, because he doubts Draco Malfoy makes a habit of cleaning other people’s bathrooms, even though he’s apparently quite happy to go round filling people’s bathtubs with cereal products.

“You want me to sit in that?”

Draco replies by _Vanishing_ his pyjamas. Which is to the point, but somewhat unnecessary, he can’t help feeling.

“Oi,” says Harry, his hands going to his crotch. “Muggle nurses don’t do that.”

“I’d hate to be a Muggle. So boring.”

Draco regards his wand smugly, but on second glance he does look strangely _distrait_.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

“So what happened?”

Harry’s back in bed, his skin feels like it’s been flayed, and all he can remember is some strange dream about snorkelling through porridge-filled bogs, and all in the Great Hall too.

He rubs his crusted eyes and looks around.

Draco’s back in his chair, pushed close to the bed, reading, oh Merlin, _Men At Arms_ , and he appears to be wearing one of Harry’s old shirts. And his pyjamas. Dear god, how long has he been asleep this time?

Draco marks his place and tucks the book between his knees. Then he looks up.

“Well Potter, after you very helpfully passed out in your porridge-bath two whole days ago, - thanks for that by the way, I’ll send my Botox bill to you - I firecalled Molly to get your Muggle Aunt’s address. And then I popped over to the Dursleys -”

Harry stares at him in growing dismay. Honestly, he passes out for a couple of minutes - hours - and suddenly Draco is on first name terms with Mrs Weasley and consorting with the Dursleys. It’s like he’s entered some kind of parallel universe.

“Harry?”

Draco waves an impatient hand in front of his eyes. He even does that elegantly, and - yeah Harry, need to focus here.

“You did _what?_!” He pushes himself up on his elbows.

Draco sits back, a single crease marring the smooth skin above his raised eyebrow. “I said -”

“Wait. Botox?”

“Muggle beauticians have their uses,” Draco allows. “Not important. So I anyway, I popped down to Little Whinging and saw your Muggle Aunt -”

“Oh god,” says Harry, pulling back his covers and swinging his legs out. “Well obviously _you’re_ alive. Where are they? Muggle or Wizarding?”

Draco starts up, his book tumbling to the floor.

“Get back to bed! I haven’t risked my life just so you can pass out again.” He pushes him down with a firm hand, and then tucks him in with a charm he must have stolen from Madam Pomfrey.

“Right. Muggle or Wizarding what?”

“Hospital,” says Harry, “What else? Unless,” he adds, giving Draco a suspicious glance. “It’s a police station. Anyway, you seem to have survived unscathed, and you were hardly risking your life, were you?” Honestly, do Malfoys _always_ have to be so dramatic. It's like third year all over again.

“That’s what you think.” There’s a brief grey flash of consternation, quickly shuttered. “Anyway I was more concerned about you. As was Professor McGonagall, I’ll have you know. Honestly Harry, you should have called for help earlier, you've been really bad."

Professor McGonagall.

Harry looks helplessly at his self-appointed nurse.

His self-appointed nurse gazes back, concern, and yes, a little touch of contrition, on his bloody Botox-smooth brow.

“What," says Harry, as calmly as he can manage. “What has _Professor McGonagall_ got to do with all this?"

“Ah,” says Draco, fiddling with his wand. “Well. I’m afraid to say I - well, I panicked.” He fixes Harry with a stern gaze. “For Merlin’s sake, Potter, you were out for the count, just lying there, unconscious, stark bollock naked, in the bath. I couldn’t risk the Weasleys, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“Right,” says Harry, holding onto the thin shreds of his self-control. “So you, you conferred with Minerva, and she - she what?” Poppy. Poppy Pomfrey. It’s the only sensible solution.

Draco just looks at him, and his voice softens.

“You were unconscious, Harry. I thought I’d nearly killed you. Aside from the - mild -consternation that provoked, I could already see the headlines. _‘Harry Potter found unconscious and naked in the company of known deviant and Death Eater’_. ‘ _Saviour sows his wild oats._ ’ ‘ _Oat-so sad. Saviour dies in kinky porridge sex. Malfoy arrested.’_ It looked bad. I couldn’t call St Mungos, you know what they’re like - especially the Muggleborns, with their bloody telly-phone cameras."

Harry does know, after Ron’s stag night debacle. He sighs.

“So, you - you did what? No St Mungos, I get that, and er, thanks for protecting my reputation.”

“Mine too,” Draco concedes. “Well, naturally, Professor McGonagall jumped straight in the floo. Still in her dressing gown too. Very kind of her, but then you always have been something of a pet.”

“And what did she do?”

The question is, will he ever be able to attend her Burn’s Suppers again, or should all oatmeal related festivities henceforth be avoided?

Draco shrugs, his eyes on the wrinkled duvet cover, which he is smoothing with his fingers. “She was very nice about it all. Brisk. You know McGonagall. Nothing much fazes her. She took one look at you, compressed her lips - you know how she does - plucked you from the bath and shoved you under the shower. I held you up, which is why I’m now wearing your clothes. Honestly Potter, they’re chafing in the most unwelcome places. You could at least use Magic Softener.” He scratches his hip. “Anyway, then she tucked you up in bed and flooed back to host what was probably a very entertaining staff drinks party.”

Harry presses his hands to his face.

“What - what did she say?”

Draco looks up at last, his lips quirking, and Harry’s heart sinks. Burn’s Supper is definitely off.

“She said it was a waste of a fine breakfast, and suggested I add salt next time.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

When he next wakes the itching is significantly easier, and he is covered in pink chalky blotches.

“Calamine lotion,” says Draco, putting his book down on the bedside table. Harry’s ‘First Aid for All’, this time.

Draco catches his gaze. “I imagine the Muggles were taught about it by their ‘wise women’ - witches living alongside Muggles, you know. Works on Dragon Pox too.”

Harry eyes the clock on the mantelpiece. Half-six, though morning or evening he can’t tell. It’s fairly dark either way.

“My head feels better. Clearer.”

“Good.” Draco leans over and presses a cool hand to his brow. 

Harry lets out a small sigh before he can stop himself.

“You - you feel cooler anyway.” Draco drops back into his chair and tucks his hand between his thighs.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday. Don’t worry, I firecalled your office. They sent over some chicken soup.”

Harry pulls a face.

“Kreacher had it. Apparently it was adequate compensation for spending the day spelling porridge from the plug hole.”

Hopefully so. He’s not up to coping with an enraged House Elf, and Malfoys don’t have a great track record with Magical Beings.

“Have you been here all this time?”

Draco wriggles his shoulders. “Mostly. Apart from my trip to Little Whinging. But don’t worry, Kreacher was looking after you then.”

Harry stares at him. Draco’s been by his bedside for _days_. He must be exhausted. He _looks_ exhausted - dark rings under his eyes, eyelids near-transparent, skin paler than usual, a fine tremor in the hand resting on the duvet.

 

“Maybe you should get some rest yourself. You don’t look well, and-“

“What do you mean? I’m fine. Never been better.” Draco squares his shoulders and puffs out his chest. He looks like a slightly hysterical penguin.

Harry blinks.

“You just seem a bit, I don’t know, odd. Sure you’re feeling all right?”

The idiot probably hasn’t slept. Draco Malfoy Nursemaid. Wonders will never cease.

Draco stares for a second, his eyes searching Harry's, and then his shoulders droop.

"Are you sure you're better?"

Harry nods. "Bit crusty, and there's something oozing on my arm, but I can only see one of you, and the room's the right way round, so - definitely on the up, I'd say."

Draco nods, swallows. He seems to have come to a decision. 

“What do you mean, I'm acting _odd_?”

“Well-“ Harry pushes himself up in the bed, takes his glasses from the bedside table, and peers at him. “A bit pale - paler than normal, I mean. Ghostly, even.”

Draco’s eyes widen and his hands clench in his trouser fabric. He looks so horrified it's almost comical. He always was ridiculously concerned with his appearance. And a complete and utter drama queen.

“Okay, not ghostly,” Harry continues, recasting his words in a hurry. No point upsetting him. “I meant, fashionably ghostly, just a bit too fashionable, if you see what I mean. And you’ve got to admit, you’re not acting - well, normally.”

Draco nods at that. “I noticed that too,” he says slowly. “What - I mean, what have _you_ noticed?”

“About you?” Harry rubs his gritty eyes. “Well, you’re being very, nice. Looking after me, even when I look like this. I just didn’t expect that. Sorry.” 

Draco shrugs. He doesn’t seem particularly insulted. 

“I don’t feel - right,” he admits. “I feel a bit funny, light-headed. And - confused.”

“Have you even slept at all?” Harry asks, suppressing, ‘you idiot’.

Draco looks at his pocket watch, glances at the ceiling, and appears to count backwards.

“Not much. Just in this chair. I didn’t-“

“I’m not going to die if you close your eyes,” Harry says, voice soft. “It’s just chicken spo - chicken _pox_.”

“But Mrs Weasley-“

“That old woman was ninety. Ninety’s fairly old, for a half-blood. You’ve looked after me. I’m feeling quite a lot better. Why don’t you lie down on the sofa and have a nap.”

Really he should send him home, but it’s oddly comforting to have him here. Kreacher will fetch and carry, and dish up bowls of steaming chicken soup, but he doesn’t sit next to his bed, reading to him, or put a cool hand on his brow, in that soothing way.

But Draco doesn’t move. In fact he looks, if anything like he’s going to cry. That lip’s going to actually _bleed_ if he keeps on gnawing at it.

 

And then it hits him. This isn’t just tiredness. Draco looks strung out, jumpy, terrified in a way Harry hasn’t seen since That Night. The one he often wonders about, when he-

 

He closes his eyes, opens them again.

 

“Something happened. Something happened at the Dursleys.”

He sees his answer flare in Draco’s eyes.

“Merlin, what  _happened,_ Draco? Do I need to turn on the Wizarding Wireless to find out? Are there Aurors waiting for you downstairs?”

Draco just sits there, his fingers twisting in his lap and colour coming and going across his pale face.

“What happened?” he asks, more gently this time. “As long as you haven’t actually killed them I’m sure we’ll be able to get you off with a caution. Merlin knows they’re far from innocent.”

“I - I’m not supposed to worry you. Mrs Weasley said it could be very dangerous for someone with such a mixing of Muggle and Magical blood.”

“You’re worrying me _now_ ,” says Harry, flinging back the duvet once more. “What the hell has happened? Cause I’m starting to think about things like the Statute of Secrecy, and that never ends well.”

“Okay, okay.” Draco holds out a placating hand. “I’ll tell you. It’s probably fine,” he says, looking supremely unconvinced of the fact.

“Draco! _”_ What the _hell_ has got him into this state, drama queen though he is?

 _“_ Right, well. You asked,” says Draco, brushing back a fallen strand of blonde hair. “So your horrible cousin opened the door...

 

\------------------

“Mr Dursley?”

The fat Muggle - fatter even than Goyle and that’s saying something - raises an eyebrow. “Who’s asking?”

“Draco Malfoy, The Malfoy Heir.” That, he thinks, sounds sufficiently impressive.

“The _what?_ What kind of name is that?”

His patience snaps. “Just give me your name, Muggle.”

The man rears back. 

“You’re one of them?”

“You see,” says Draco, pushing past him into the hallway. “That was easy. _Now_ tell me your name, Muggle.”

The Muggle man wavers in the hall, the door half open behind him. He looks like he doesn’t know whether to close the door and keep the prying neighbours out, or run screaming down the street. Draco slams the door for him, save him the mental effort.

“Mrs Peculiar Dursley?”

The fat Muggle looks down the hall. “Mum! It’s one of them. One of Harry’s lot.” He turns back. “Look. I don’t suggest you call her that. She’s in a foul mood today."

Draco stares at him.

And that’s why he’s off his guard, why he panics, when the Muggle woman storms into the hall, wearing a helmet of little pink sausages, and he realises with horror, armed and dangerous.

 

\-------------------------

“She chased me with a - a- _thing_ , Harry. She said ‘Get away your horrible freak!’,

And then your cousin, the fat one, he said, ‘No Mum, not the Die-Soon!’ and she ran at me with this green whirring thing with a handle and a long wand, and it caught my scarf and started eating it, and then I could feel it starting to suck my soul away...”

“Not your nice scarf?”

Draco stops pacing. 

“Yes my nice scarf. I really liked that scarf. Mother brought it back from - and that isn’t the point, Harry! I’ve been cursed by some dreadful Muggle wand, or, or a Light Saver, and _I don’t know what’s going to happen!”_

 

Oh god, he _knew_ Star Wars was a bad idea.

 

He tries to keep a straight face. Tries, and fails. And god it hurts his chest, which was feeling a bit funny anyway, what with the coughing. 

“What the? Are you _laughing_?” Draco reaches skywards with his arms and starts pacing again. “I venture into Muggle borings-ville to get your healer records and some Muggle crazy woman attacks me with a Die-Soon and _you think it’s funny?”_

Harry manages to open one eye. Draco does look rattled. He grabs a passing hand and tugs him towards the bed.

“I mean - how long have I got? It’s working already - I’ve been sitting here, watching you and counting your breaths, but that _thing_ took away all my happy thoughts. It was worse than the Dementors Harry, honestly. All I could do was worry and see the most awful things happening in front of me.” He sinks onto the bed, pulled by Harry’s insistent hand. “Can the healers do anything with Muggle curses?” He doesn’t sound convinced.

“It’ll be fine,” Harry manages to croak out, but at that Draco tugs his hand away.

“It will not be fine. And it’s getting worse.” He reaches for the artery in his neck, his fingers stilling over the pulse point.

“Harry, for Merlin’s sake, my heart rate is through the roof. And I’m feeling all breathless, and a little dizzy, and -- oomph.”

 

Draco stumbles back, his fingers still at the pulse point in his neck.

“Did you just? Was that the kiss of life? I'm not sure it works on Wizard-”

“No.” Harry struggles up in the bed. “That was not the Kiss of Life. That was just a - - well, just a kiss.”

“But, --why?”

“To shut you up,” is what he wants to say. _And because you were adorable, all flustered like that. Rather like that time -- Anyway._ What he says is- “You were hysterical.” He coughs. “I was trying to calm you down.”

Draco looks at him, lowers his hand, and sinks onto the bed next to him. “Kissing me is not going to calm me down, Harry.”

“You’re fine, Draco.” He coughs some more. His ribs are aching. “That was a hoover. A vacuum.”

Draco stares at him. “I know what a vacuum is, and I find that information in no way reassuring.” 

Harry shakes his head. “Not a gun. Not a Light Sabre - and we are never watching Star Wars again, by the way - It’s, it’s just like a House Elf that sucks up dust. Not souls.”

The light of understanding floods into panicked grey eyes. 

“So I’m _not_ cursed.”

“Nope.”

“And I’m not going to ‘die soon’?”

Harry touches his hand. “Dy-son, Draco, not Die-Soon. It’s a brand name.”

“I-” Draco looks around wildly, anywhere but at him. “I panicked.”

“It’s my fault,” says Harry. “I only told you the horrible stuff. No wonder you panicked.”

He should have told Draco the whole story, not just the funny bits. But then they’ve not had that much time really, just a few months of fortnightly, then weekly meet-ups. He won’t call them dates, not even in his mind.

Draco just stares at him, his hand still shaking, and Harry tightens his grip, tries a smile.

“Did you give Dudley my regards?”

“Yes - if you mean did I _Disapparate_ from his garden, screaming, after I _Confringoed_ his front door.”

Harry pulls Draco’s unprotesting hand into his lap. 

“Oh dear. I’d better write and explain.”

“Write and explain?” Draco leans forward, presses the back of his free hand against Harry’s forehead. “You’re not _that_ hot. _Why_ Harry? He deserves it.”

“I forgave him.”

“You _what?”_

“I forgave him. He apologised. I forgave him.”

“As simple as that,” Draco says, blankly.

“Yeah.” Harry shrugs. “Just like I forgave you.”

Draco blinks.

Harry waits. Nods.

Draco jerks away, stumbles to his feet. “But w _hy?_ I somehow doubt my innate wit and charm has been enough to make up for everything I did. I never - I thought you were taking pity on me. I never actually thought you’d forgiven me.”

“I should have told you. And it was never pity. And now - well, you did that, for me _,_ ” says Harry, catching him by the wrist and dragging him over once more. “You went through all that - my Muggle relatives, the the Die-Soon” _keep a straight face Potter_ “All for _me_. And then you just sat there, looking after me, chewing your nails off with worry, rather than hurt me or Hermione.”

Draco curls his fingers in with a frown, but he lets himself be pulled down onto the bed next to Harry nonetheless. 

“What did you expect me to do? You invite me to your house, no one else knows we’re - friendly - now. I dread to think what Mrs Weasley's imagining - and then you tell me you’ve got some deadly Muggle disease. I, for one, do not want to be the last person to see Harry Potter alive. It would be most inconvenient if you were to mysteriously expire whilst in my company. Naturally, I did everything I could to save you.”

“And to save me worry,” says Harry softly. “You don’t have to prove anything. I know who you are now, and - and I want to know more.” He rubs his thumb, crusted though it is, across Draco’s palm. Draco shudders. “Much more. Maybe... maybe we could even go on a date.”

“A date?”

“Yup.”

“Like, when two people who like each other go out and have fun etc?”

Harry smiles at him. “Glad to see you were watching carefully. Yes, somewhere romantic.” When he’s less - spotty - of course. And sweaty.

Draco looks at him consideringly. “Forgive me if I am not entirely convinced that you know the meaning of the word.”

“Hey!” Harry tries to untangle himself from the duvet, the better to argue. He can do romantic. Probably.

“Is it in a supermarket or launderette?”

“Er, no. You know, those weren’t actually -”

“The lost property office on the London Underground?”

Harry sighs. “Ron left Rosie’s favourite rabbit on a Circle Line train. And you didn’t _have_ to come that -”

Drac ignores him. “Because the Bournemouth Sewage Museum - well, that was -"

“That was research for Rosie’s school project on Great Victorian Engineers." Harry sighs, threads his fingers through Draco’s. “I can do romance, and roses and - all that, you've just got to give me a chance."

He can see through Draco now, and what he can see, he very much wants. Has wanted, for weeks now, even before this whole -

Draco squeezes his fingers, and the look he bestows on Harry is strangely soft.

“Harry. I don’t need dates and flowers and all that stuff. You had me at the frozen fish.”


	6. Epilogue

“Don’t look at me!”

Harry, attempting to turn over, legs still tangled in Draco’s, freezes in his tracks. Surely, after everything they’ve been through, he’s not going to back out now.

“What’s the matter?” He tries, and attempts, gently, to pull back the covers bunched over a Draco-shaped lump in the bed.

“No!”

There’s something really wrong here. He scrubs his fingers through his hair, and god, he could definitely do with a bath - just not in oatmeal, this time, and especially not with spectators. Minerva giving him a shower was bad enough, the fact that Narcissa Malfoy apparently also got sight of his porridge-encrusted arse is a revelation it will take some time to digest.

He pokes the lump.

“Draco. What’s happened?”

“I’m cursed!” The pile of duvet quivers.

Harry attempts to drag back the covers. 

“Look, I told you, it was just a Dyson - a a cleaning stick - it _can’t_ curse you. You’re absolutely -”

Draco is huddled on the bed, his face hidden. Harry puts out a tentative hand.

“Come on Draco, whatever’s wrong -”

“This!” says Draco, suddenly shooting up in bed. Wounded eyes regard Harry. “Don’t look at it!” 

“I can’t,” points out Harry, pretty reasonably he thinks. “You’ve got your hands over most of your face. Look. Whatever’s wrong, I’m sure we’ve got through worse. Just show me.”

Draco stills, closes his eyes, and then, slowly, drops his hands.

“Ah,” says Harry. “Well, that really is, quite -”

“Enormous,” says Draco, covering his face once more. “A pustule. An enormous weeping pustule, right in the middle of my nose. This doesn’t normally happen, Harry. It’s never happened before. Malfoys are _renowned_ for their good skin.” His voice rises to a wail.

Harry takes his hand, pulls it to his lap. He’s not sure what’s going to be worse, a Malfoy-defying spot, or the ramifications -

“Em, Draco. I don’t think that’s a spot.”

One irascible eye opens and peers up at him. “What is it then, Potter? A new limb? A volcano? A small Pacific Island?

“Um, possibly, maybe a chicken-sp.. pox?” Harry offers, and looks round for cover. Preferably something concrete and reinforced.

Draco regards him wordlessly.

Harry bites his lip.

“Toujours pur, eh?” 

Silence. And then the patrician nose elevates, before releasing one small sniff.

“I shall be having words with that tapestry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait for the ending. I no longer have as much free time, and I was struggling with how to write the die-soon scene.
> 
> A bonus chapter to follow.


End file.
